


Only His Lady

by Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lazy Mornings, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Romance, Self-Insert, Sleepy Kisses, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:10:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think that waking up next to Ichabod Crane is, if you had to put words to such a thing, the best possible way to wake up.</p><blockquote>
  <p>"Good morning," he mumbles, voice deep with morning and sleep and disuse, after you hit the button on the alarm to shut it off. The irksome shrieking is only dulled by his voice, the luscious way that his words sound with his British accent, and the fact that he slips his arm around you as you snuggle over into his warmth.</p>
</blockquote><p>[Ichabod/Reader.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only His Lady

**Author's Note:**

> It's so haaaarrrrdddddd to write Ichabod being cutesy with someone besides Abbie, even if it is reader insert. xD I like doing reader insert with fictional character. Can you _imagine_ waking up next to this man? Mwah xoxo I want Ichabod cuddles toooo
> 
> I do not own _Sleepy Hollow_. Thanks for reading!

You think that waking up next to Ichabod Crane is, if you had to put words to such a thing, the best possible way to wake up.

He always somehow seems to know exactly when you're going to wake up - product of the alarm you set and his body's circadian rhythm, perhaps? - and he's immediately awake and aware, albeit a little sleepy around the edges.

"Good morning," he mumbles, voice deep with morning and sleep and disuse, after you hit the button on the alarm to shut it off. The irksome shrieking is only dulled by his voice, the luscious way that words sound with his British accent, and the fact that he slips his arm around you as you snuggle over into his warmth.

The shower can and will wait; besides, you have your alarm set to allow for ten minutes of snooze before it's absolutely necessary to get up and get ready. If you didn't have work, you'd probably stay in bed with him all day. On a few incredibly fine lazy days, you've done mostly that, only pulling yourself away from sleep in order to sit up and watch boring daytime dramas on Ichabod's stunningly small television set.

"Morning," you whisper, and snuggle up against his chest.

The shirt he sleeps in is completely modern day. It had taken awhile, but you had finally talked him out of his long johns, or whatever they were that he used to wear. All you know now, it's a too large, long sleeved shirt and baggy pants with a drawstring and it's probably... maybe... _definitely_ the cutest look Ichabod has. Better still, it smells like him, all endless forest and burning campfires and spice. You duck your head against his chest and draw in a deep breath. It sinks into your bones to relax you, despite that you shouldn't be wanting to go back to sleep.

Ichabod's fingers find their way into your hair and you hum against his chest as he starts to run his fingers through it. You know it's probably knotted and tangled from a good's night sleep and the bedhead that follows, but his fingers are slow, and gentle, and precise, working out any tangle that he might find. "Did you sleep well?" he asks, and you can feel the vibrations through the thin layer of his shirt.

"Mhmm." You clumsily untangle your arm from the blankets again and tangle your fingers instead in his shirt.

"That's pleasing to hear," Ichabod replies. He shifts, and a moment later, you feel his lips against the top of your head.

You smile. "Sure." Now it's your turn to tilt your head back so you can meet his gaze. "You?"

"Most wondrously, as always, my love, with you here." Ichabod smiles. His piercing blue eyes are still clouded over with sleep, eyes half lidded, but the smile is genuine. Sleepy, but genuine, even though he still says all this soppy, romantic stuff _every_ time you ask him how he slept. You'd tell him to get a new tagline, if you weren't secretly pleased by it.

"Uh huh," you just say instead, reaching up to toy with a piece of his hair. He sleeps with it down - all for the better - and currently it's sprawled over the pillow and his shoulder as he lays on his side to hold you.

Ichabod hums and closes his eyes, if only for a beat too slightly long. "What is on the agenda for today?"

"Work," you reply immediately, and without enthusiasm. Why isn't it Saturday yet? "Hopefully just work. Hopefully just an easy day." You sigh. "It's not staying in bed watching horrible TV with you."

Ichabod raises an eyebrow; you hear it in his tone when he speaks and you don't need to look at his face to see it but there it is nonetheless. "Do you imagine that I while away the hours, languishing in bed, whilst you work so hard at your occupation?"

You laugh, pulling your pillow closer. "No. I don't know. Sometimes," you add, just to poke at him.

"I do no such thing," Ichabod replies, taking the bait like you knew he would. "I'll do the usual and still find time to make dinner tonight, then, to prove my worth."

Take the bait, indeed. But still, a guilty conscience isn't something you want on your plate to start the day, so you add "I wasn't serious, Ichabod. I can grab something on the way back.".

"No, now I wish to make dinner," Ichabod says firmly. "Besides, it's been far too long since I've treated you by cooking, what with all of your... quick food services with drive-by windows."

He speaks with such disdain for fast food that you can't help but laugh. He sings an entirely different tune if he is the one consuming said fast food. You had realized long ago that you had created a monster in introducing Ichabod Crane to food that not only tasted good (forget about if it was good for you or not) but was quick and easily able to be packed in a paper bag to eat on the run.

"You like fast food," you remind softly, pulling on his hair teasingly. "Remember when you gouged yourself on those fries last week, and you-"

"I remember quite enough of that particular ordeal, thank you," Ichabod interrupts, pressing his thumb against the back of your neck. "I have indeed decided to cook for us tonight. There will be no more discussion, if you please."

Still chuckling, you relent. "Alright. Whatever you want, honey."

Ichabod sighs. "Must you call me such sticky, sweet pet names?" His thumb traces around so that he can caress your cheek. "My fascination with your century may be never-ending, but must we indulge ourselves in such ways?"

"My beloved," you say instead, pointedly, and enunciating both of the words. You press your lips against his neck to whisper them against his skin.

"... That is more preferable." His arms tighten around you. "Thank you."

"My love," you add, nosing at his jawline.

"That's very kind, but now you flatter me."

"My dearest Ichabod." You press your lips against the corner of his mouth.

Ichabod makes a noise and turns his head so that your lips are pressed against each other's. It's soft, and slow, and incredibly sweet. You don't require pet names when Ichabod's lips taste of honey and tea or peppermint toothpaste. He is sweet enough in his entirety.

But, "Sweetheart," he says with a smile as you pull away, and pet names are nice if not necessary.

You smile lazily and peck him on the lips once more before abandoning his embrace. The world waking up to its usual bustle around you isn't quite so sweet, but necessary to face nonetheless. You can do so now with the expectation of returning home later to not only Ichabod, but a home cooked dinner, too.

"I shall go prepare tea and breakfast," Ichabod says, following your lead of extricating yourself from the bed. "Do you have any preference for brew and breakfast food?"

You don't, and you tell him as much, but he nods, anyway, and heads for the doorway. You walk past him on your way to the bathroom and, for an instant, your hands brush each other's unintentionally. Ichabod somehow still manages to swipe the pad of his thumb against the back of your knuckles for a split second before he's gone, sauntering with a little sleep incoordination towards the kitchen for aforementioned refreshment.

You smile again and head to the bathroom to get ready for work.

 


End file.
